Roads Unwalked
by thepkrmgc
Summary: Somewhere in the wastes there is a campfire. Somewhere amid the dunes and dust two people sit: one old one young. And stories are told, just as they've always been: that is all that matters in the end.


Roads Unwalked, by thepkrmgc

Somewhere in the wastes there is a campfire. Somewhere amid the dunes and dust two people sit: one old one young. And stories are told, just as they've always been: that is all that matters in the end.

"You know kid: I could've been a farmer. I could've woken from my grave beneath the earth and said enough's enough. I could've settled down and lived a peaceful life, I could have built a home to call my own. And I might have found a quiet sort of love, no less wholesome in its way. And I might have been happy, the simple life just might have been the one to set my restless mind at ease.

For there's an honor to ones who wield a plowshare, regardless of the things the swordsmen say. It's a feat of no small strength to take a hit and turn the other way. And if my home was threatened, it'd be only then I'd take a stand but not alone. Woven threads hold fast against a force that'd snap them on their own.

But the dusty road it called me, I fast grow tired of the same old sights and souls. There were questions that I wanted answered, and so I went upon my way. In time I stood upon another crossroads, but that's a tale for other days…"

They sleep, and wake, and walk another day: we share our lives in a thousand different ways.

"You know: I could've been a sheriff. I could've been the law for miles round. I could've tried for more than what'd passed for wasteland justice. I could've kept the peace and held my ground, I could've been a man of high ideal, I could have guarded men from their own flaws. And it might have a noble life, and it might have a righteous cause. And I might have found a purpose living as a shield to others. For there's a stubborn power in a hat of white, few symbols shine as brightly as a lawman's silver star. And if my town was threatened then i'd stand before it all without the slightest falter in my stride. It's hard to stop the spirit of protectors, they'll beat you even if it means they die.

But I've always had a buttered soul, for duties always seem to slip away. I dealt the convicts in my path the lead they'd earned, and then I passed the torch and walked away. I suppose I couldn't watch myself the watchmen: I guess I feared to fall from grace. There's countless evils done by those who think that they are righteous. I couldn't trust myself to judge my own mistakes without the bias of their cause."

At times the pair is accosted, there's no lack of those with evil hearts out in the wastes. Though the elder takes upon themselves the brunt of fighting, the younger's hands are bloodied all the same.

"I could've driven caravans you know: I could've walked the long fifteen and miles more. I could've carted loads upon my back to make a profit, I could have silvered up my tongue and ran a roaming store. And I could have traveled well trod roads way back in California, I need not've ventured out where monsters dwell. And it might have scratched my itch for constant motion, and I might have been a rich man in an honest way. For a caravaner takes his family with them, and they've got a set of friends at every stop along their usual way. And if danger came then we'd just find another route to travel, and make another set of friends to take the dead ones place.

But the road itself is just a web of concrete, all the wastelands greatests treasures lie beyond it's snare. The ruins of lost nations past did call me, driving me to search through history's lairs. And caps are just another tool to me I'd reckon, their only value's what you'd get in an exchange. Lugging all those discs of steel around gets heavy, and it's better not to jingle when you walk I'd say."

They need not carry much, for the land offers up aplenty to those few who know it's secrets. The elder steps as softly as a gentle wind,the younger does their best: and learns.

"You know: I could have been a soldier, I could have taken up with NCR and been their best damn fighter since the one who killed the enclave walked away. I could've joined a band of brothers, I could have dug my share of trenches in the sand and held the line againts the worst the bull could throw my way. And I might have made a difference, I might have cured the ailing beast within and wrought a bloody havoc on it's foes.

For there's a cause within each country's anthem, for there's a faith within each flag. For there's more to nationhood than lines upon an ancient map: it exists within its peoples very souls. And if my country ever faced a threat then I'd have long since died to try and stop it, regretting but my lack of other lives to give to and save the day.

But I've never cared enough about a chunk of land to own it, the only flag I'll ever carry's on my back. For I've seen the great machines that pass for nations: for I've heard the pounding of their drums upon the breeze. The only tune I'll ever march to is my heartbeat: my souls my own or so I claim."

There is no symbol on their dusters, no place that they call home. There is but the fire and the stories and the other: and that is all they need.

"You know, I could've been a gambler. I could have made a living rolling dice and spinning wheels. I could have struck it rich and won the jackpot, or I could've made too many risks and lost it all with one wrong play. And I could've reveled in such fleeting glories, I could've found some bliss in hedonistic fog. And it might have been amazing, for however long it lasted, they know their sin in Vegas most of all. And when it all came crashing down I might have been too high to notice, I might have been to numb to care. And it might have been a mercy, one less fiend out of the world's hair.

But I've never been the sort to eat the lotus, I much prefer my mind the way it is. I don't need rose tinted glasses, the world's plenty pretty even with it's many sins. For without life's little downs living soon would lose its flavor. Better sadness then a happiness that's fake. I've always left the fantasies to books and moving pictures, I don't need it in my day to day."

Yet on clear nights they stargaze, and draw their share of pictures in the dust. In the husks of ancient buildings they carve their names into the rust.

"You know, I could have sought revenge, I could've killed the man who shot me or just left him in a shallow tomb to die in karmic way. And it might have been an act of justice, or it might have been entangled in a broader war. And I might have felt fulfillment, or I might've been disgusted to the core.

Instead I took his pistol as a keepsake and I let him go: I chose to be a better man. And If I smiled when I heard he fell afoul of legion: well then no one is ever perfect, that's not a title even I will ever claim."

The pilfered gun was never fired, but years ago was laid to rest inside it's final victims empty grave. The scars it left blend in with those since born from age.

"You know I could've been a king or caesar: but uneasy is the head that wears a crown. To sit a thrones to have a sword above your head, to take one means to pile corpses mountains high. And yet I could have done it, with a secret that I'll take unto my grave. For no-one needs that kind of power, in pursuit of lesser things are monsters made."

A broken chip inside a hidden pocket, a single story never told. The world changed because a courier chose to walk away.

"I could've been a knight in shining steel: I could've followed in the footsteps of the ancients. I could've put my faith in ancient gods: I could have taken up the gospel of the .45 and blown a lot of men away. And yet the past is no salvation, I'm not the sort to sing old world blues. I've been a part of history before and not much liked it, it's nothing that the world hasn't seen before.

I've read my fill of dusty tomes, I've talked at length with ancient ghouls and walking steel-clad brains. "Who are you without your history?" a friend of mine once said: I suppose he never had the eyes to see my history was dead: stolen by two bullets in the skull.

You see a lot of places when you walk the long and winding roads, you see a lot of different sides. You'll hear a lot of different stories about anything of note that happens: there's not a man alive who doesn't think his cause is right in its own way.

Yet there were those with whom I shared at path at times, and there were those I shared a fire with through the darkest nights. And they're the only ones whose judgement matters, for they're the only ones who have the right.

Because the road I walked was never lonesome, I always listened to my honest heart. I never shot somebody dead for money, I only did what I thought right. I lived my life, for what it's worth, I've had a lot of fun along the way. I've walked from sea to shining sea a time or two, rarely stopping from my pace. Just don't forget to take your time and smell the mutfruit son, for times a one way street without a light. You can't go back to travel roads unwalked on, sometimes you just can't set things right."

In time the elder passes on, from a sickness or a wound or simply age. Yet in time there is a different fire by a different road, but there are stories being told there all the same.

Fin

I took the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference. -Robert Frost.


End file.
